


Points of Contact

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Living Together, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24878677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: That’s how they’ve always done things. Steve knowing when to push and when to step back. But there’s something in those blue eyes now that tells Steve, Danny needs to be needed. And given that Steve needs Danny more than he needs air, he’s more than happy to comply.Or, yet another story about how they start sleeping together.
Relationships: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
Comments: 27
Kudos: 295





	Points of Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlgeriaTouchshriek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlgeriaTouchshriek/gifts), [Ymas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymas/gifts).



> For Algeria and Ymas, who read and encouraged and caught typos as I wrote, and who deserve so much more, for endlessly putting up with my bullshit and my freak-outs and my messes, with patience and humor and kindness I probably don’t deserve. 

It’s like the fifth night it’s happened. The first two at least he hadn’t been sure he wasn’t dreaming. By the fourth he was anticipating it, and by the time he wakes, in the darkest hours of this, the fifth night, he feels his heart settle, his—what... panic?—subside, at the soft, warm, tentative points of contact at his back.

Danny hadn’t started off by sleeping in Steve’s bed. His crashing at Steve’s for variable inexplicable reasons had steadily increased in frequency, till now it almost seems as though he’s at Steve’s more often than he’s at his own home. Steve never listens to the reason anymore, just nods and makes a mental note to buy more laundry detergent, because somewhere along the line, Danny-staying-at-Steve’s had become Steve-doing-Danny’s-laundry. A less self-confident man might start to imagine that’s why.

But no, the sleeping in Steve’s bed had only come after a week or so of this most recent... visit.

He’d started on the sofa, as he always does. Moved to the guest room in fairly short order, as had become more common lately. But then, about a week and a few days in, Steve had woken to the distinct sense that Danny had been in his bed. Rolling over had confirmed it. Not only was the vacant half of the bed still warm, there was an indent in the pillow, and that soft, sweet, clean scent of Danny. Steve would know that smell... well. Anywhere, he’d know it anywhere... he just never dared hope he’d smell it in his bed.

Five nights in and he’s utterly hooked.

And they’re not even especially claiming, the touches. It’s not explicitly sexual or even romantic. It’s bordering on fraternal. Certainly he’s taken comfort in similar ways on long, deep, morally questionable missions in his time.

It’s more that it’s an almost subconscious admission of an unmet need on Danny’s part. Some pull, that first led him upstairs, closer to Steve, then into Steve’s bed, closer still, then, into direct—if subtle—contact.

There are only three points of that contact. An arm softly at his back, the top of a thigh pressing against his butt, and a shin resting at his foot. They feel chosen, intentional, and yet they’re simply practical.

Steve hasn’t worked out how aware Danny even is that it happens, the touching. Because Steve only wakes after Danny’s in place, and he’s been pulled, each time, swiftly back asleep—by the warmth, by the comfort, by a need to preserve the occurrence by sealing it within his mind somehow. And when he wakes by daylight, each time, Danny has fallen slightly away, close still but no longer touching. Which Steve doesn’t entirely mind, because he’s then able to turn, observe a sleeping Danny in the soft yellow light of morning, and wonder. Wonder what he’s done to deserve the trust, the honor, the sheer delight of sharing his sleep with the one person he’s ever truly wanted to wake up to each morning.

This morning, he forces himself, like he has each of the past four mornings, to rise from the bed before he lingers for too long, and heads out for his swim. And he’s not sure how much his fear of over-lingering is because of a deeper fear. If he’s afraid that Danny waking before he leaves will mean an end to the magic.

But it leaves him wanting more, a frustration he beats out against the waves as he swims.

Just like all those other mornings when Danny’s at his house, by the time Steve comes in from his morning exercise, it’s to find Danny in the kitchen, coffee brewed and half consumed, breakfast sizzling (not quite burning) on the stove. And it’s not like a barefoot and sleep mussed Daniel Williams isn’t already one of his favorite sights, but somehow knowing he’s come from Steve’s own bed amplifies his feelings towards it even more.

Each time Danny comes to stay, Steve hopes he just won’t leave.

So if he’s imagining this new element of sleeping in his bed is somehow a hopeful sign of that inevitability, well... it’s not like he wasn’t already wishing for it.  
  


Danny’s got Charlie for the weekend, and Steve comes this close to pointing out his old room is perfect for him, his old surfboard is too. He’s held back from it by the fact Danny goes to great pains to point out he’ll be back Sunday night after he drops Charlie back off at Rachel’s, so if Steve could make sure his work clothes are ready for the week, then they could finish that movie they’d started the other night and still get to bed on time so they’re well rested for work on Monday.

Steve bites his tongue, actually bites down on his tongue, to keep himself from asking which bed Danny has in mind getting into on time. Instead Steve asks what he wants for lunches that week, since it looks like he’ll be doing the grocery shopping alone. 

It’s not that Steve minds doing the shopping alone. There’s something soothing about strolling meditatively through the aisles, picking out his usual sustenance. And he enjoys selecting things he knows Danny will like. Watching a well-stocked Danny get creative in the kitchen is probably one of the greater joys in life. So, yes, it’s a thing Steve knows he’s good at and he enjoys it, takes pride in it, even. But... there’s grocery shopping, and then there’s grocery shopping with Danny. Which... well, it’s different. But Steve is kinda craving it. And he kinda hates himself for that.

Still, the weekend isn’t horrible, and Danny messages him a lot. Like, oddly a lot, even for Danny. Lots of pictures of Charlie playing at the park, building things with the Legos Steve had gotten him for Christmas, making pizza from scratch with Danny, beating him at Uno. And a series of random, maybe slightly awkward, borderline surreal musings from Danny, mostly late at night: An almost poetic line about the middle of the night sounds from a shrub outside his bedroom window (this, Steve knows, a ploy to get him to offer to come trim it, which is irritating as Danny “borrowed” his hand saw a month and a half ago—presumably to trim said shrub—and still hasn’t returned it). A vividly illustrated analogy about Charlie’s ruthlessness at a simple game of cards and how it’s clearly Steve’s fault (which is total bullshit by the way as Danny is stupidly competitive and Steve only ever wins if he cheats when Danny isn’t looking... okay maybe that’s fair, probably Charlie learned that from him). The point is. If Steve didn’t know better he almost might think Danny was regretting not having Steve with him during all of it. It’s a little like he’s live-messaging his entire weekend, and that’s more than even the exceedingly verbose Danny typically submits him to.

Steve has, of course, taken special pains to ensure Danny’s work wardrobe is in perfect functioning order (and why all of Danny’s work clothes have migrated to the closet in Steve’s guest room is anyone’s guess, nonetheless here they indeed are). If Steve’s taken special pains to place his favorite shirts in the front—that cornflower blue that makes Danny’s eyes glow, and that seldom worn, soft faded red that makes Steve’s heart go inexplicably soft. Well, he ironed them, so it seems only fair.

Steve also has done some meal prep for their lunches. Nothing too overt, just making sure things are washed and sliced and arranged so the morning hustle is a little less bustle-y. Because Danny gets a little fussy in the mornings sometimes, and it’s not that Steve minds, per se, so much as he knows Danny does, and it’s no skin off Steve’s teeth to take that little bit of time to make things that little bit less stressful for his partner.

Maybe he should get a hobby....

At any rate. By the time Danny walks through the door, slightly past the time he’d planned, Steve’s got popcorn made, beers at the ready, the movie cued up, his coziest sweats on, and oh god it’s all worth it, it is all so perfectly worth it, for the look on Danny’s face when he drops his duffel on the floor, kicks off his shoes, mid-rant about science projects and Rachel’s inability to take a chill pill about creative interpretations of experiment limitations and how stifling a child’s interests at that age (hell, at any age) is tantamount to torture... and he just stops. A sly grin—that one Steve loves so much—spreads slowly as he takes in the sensory input of the scene before him, molecule by molecule, breath by breath. He shuffles lazily over to the sofa (and Steve never fails to be stunned and amused at how easily Danny can make that shift, from full on rant to slouchy relaxed ease), sinks into the leathered cushions, melting swiftly against Steve’s side, accepting the beer Steve hands him, clinking their bottles together, and letting his hand rest heavily on Steve’s thigh.

Steve completely fails to follow the movie at all.  
  


“God, that was good,” Danny sighs, squeezing Steve’s leg then slapping it before pushing himself to standing. He stretches, his shirt lifting as he does, revealing a tanned expanse of skin Steve wants so very much to reach out and touch. 

_Or kiss...._

He must miss something Danny’s said, because all of a sudden there’s a sassy wave of hand in front of his face, and an amused “Earth to Steve,” being muttered.

“Come on, babe,” the tone continues. “Time we got you to bed.”

And he’s really not paying attention—or rather, he’s paying more attention to his fantasies than his realities—only that’s not it either because Danny in his bed _is_ his reality. But the point is, it’s that melding of realism with his desire that sparks it, because his reply is a gruff and heated _“Yes, please,”_ and there’s just no way Danny misinterprets that. There’s just not.

Danny freezes. Steve flinches. 

Danny visibly processes that, calculations scrolling past his flickering blue eyes. He evidently reaches some sort of conclusion, because he reaches out for Steve’s hand, pulls him to standing, and into his arms.

“You want me to put you to bed?” Danny asks, essentially to Steve’s lips.

Steve’s mouth, however, has no desire to speak. It only wishes to _kiss,_ so he nods instead.

Which Danny evidently finds amusing. “Yeah?” He asks, tone so close to laughter. “Shall I tuck you in? Read you a story? Leave the door open so you can see the light from the hall? Leave my door open too...?”

And Steve clues in. He looks down into Danny’s eyes, and he sees that perpetual shadow of doubt, lingering always at the corners of his eyes. Beat back sometimes by the sunshiny brightness of his natural disposition, but never truly vanquished. Never fully gone. Always threatening, always lingering, always at the ready, should the need arise.

“No,” Steve replies, his voice barely above a whisper. “Leave the door closed. As long as you’re on the right side of it.”

Danny, impossibly, steps even closer. “Which side is that?” He asks.

“The inside,” Steve says, to the inside of Danny’s mouth, as their lips have come together, seemingly through no volition of their own, just as though they could bear no longer to be apart.

It’s a slow—not tentative, but maybe cautious—kiss. The energy behind it held back, as though something unknown, unforeseen might be brought forth to point out why this can’t really be happening, this isn’t actually real.

But, fuck, it is real. It’s so very real, and Steve knows that not because Danny’s lips are maybe not as soft as they’ve been in his dreams, or because Steve isn’t as suave, not as confident a kisser as he wishes he was, but because stunningly none of that matters. Stunningly, the only thing that matters is touch, and warmth, and the flooding joy that makes his blood sing as their bodies press even closer, making the wisdom of being horizontal blindingly clear, because Steve’s always assumed “weak in the knees” was just a figure of speech, he had no idea it was an actual fucking thing.

Danny maybe is more familiar with the concept because he pulls back swearing softly, tugs on Steve’s hand, and grunts “Bed. Now.” And Steve’s never been given an order he’s been more eager to follow.

They stagger somewhat, making it up the stairs, and Steve has never minded the two story house until now because this is just real unfortunate planning, this whole needing to climb up things while wanting nothing so much as to be climbing _into_ things.

Things like bed. Bed with Danny. _His_ bed, with Danny. 

Awake.

He shivers at the thought, and fortunately they’ve made it to the top of the stairs, and it seems for a moment they won’t make it any further because Danny presses him into the wall, grabs for his ass, and Steve’s never really been one for the overly dramatic declarations of passion but he actually thinks _Dear god take me right here._ Which fortunately only propels him to what’s probably an even more dramatic declaration, because he lifts Danny up, and like the Neanderthal Danny so often accuses him of being, slings him actually over his shoulder, and carries him to bed.

Once he’s deposited Danny on his bed, he immediately divests himself of his clothes, then looks down to see blue eyes flaming—another something he’d not thought possible.

“Oh, you liked that did you? I should have done that ages ago. Now get your damn clothes off.”

And the beautiful thing? _Danny does._  
  


Once they’re both divested of their clothes, and they’re standing, inches apart but not daring to touch, there’s this pause.... It’s as though the intervening years they’ve spent wanting but not allowing this are spinning by, catching up, scrolling past.... Steve’s breath seems slowed. Belabored. His body feels heavy. And Danny... Danny looks for all the world like he’s waiting for Steve to direct this. Like he wants that. _Needs_ it, even. Which isn’t something Steve would have thought. He will push Danny, he will goad him. But then it’s Danny who takes over. That’s how they’ve always done things. Steve knowing when to push and when to step back. But there’s something in those blue eyes now that tells Steve, Danny needs to be needed. And given that Steve needs Danny more than he needs air, he’s more than happy to comply.

He lifts him, more gently, more tenderly than before. Holding his body like it’s the most precious thing. Lays him back on the bed, crawling atop him, slowly, intently. Like he’s telegraphing every thought behind each inch of progress. _You deserve to be loved like this._ It’s only when he hears Danny’s breath sucked in on a gasp that he knows. He’s said it aloud.

And of course words are fuel to the flame for Danny. So Steve finds, somehow, within himself, a torrent of words to follow his kisses, his touches, his glances. _Love_ and _need_ and _want_ and _desire_ and _longing._ And they’re not elegant phrases, they’re probably not even entirely coherent, but he says them without thinking, and it works, it fits, because Danny processes them without thinking, like Steve’s applied them directly to his skin with his lips, his tongue, his fingers. And maybe Steve’s being overly emotional about it (he feels his emotions so strongly like they’re flooding everything else out of his blood, out of his mind), but it seems to him as though a change is happening within Danny. Not just arousal, not just desire, not just the want-need of something he’s denied for far too long, but some deeper sea change of his actual body chemistry, some fundamental shift in his very being, and that’s when Steve knows, this means even more than the tiny fraction of his brain that’s still functioning can allow. So it’s without knowing, but with some animalistic fundamental comprehension—knowing without knowing what he’s knowing—that he understands, this means everything. And he’s doing it the right way.

Danny shivers when Steve pulls himself away, to stand, to walk to his drawer, to find the bottle he needs. Danny’s vibrations shake the bed, and Steve’s incredibly heightened senses feed on it, take fuel from it, spark to an even more profound level of awareness. It’s not only with feelings but also with words that he needs to confirm Danny’s acquiescence, so he says, in the simplest terms possible, _I need to be inside you,_ and Danny’s reply is an echo of Steve’s earlier _god, yes, please._

He’s slow, he’s gentle, he’s obsessed. Fixated. Like it’s not something he’s done hundreds of times before, mostly in the dark, mostly in a hurry—from lack of time or lack of patience, or the injured need to hurt and be hurt. He’s never savored this, never felt that push, that pull, that need to be aware of each inch, each millimeter, each fraction of a moment it takes, slowly, deliciously, achingly slowly feeling Danny open, soften, spread, engulf him. Never has he been so absolutely consumed by so small a space, so vast a feeling brought forth by one finger, two, three... it’s as though the entire universe is set forth before him, from one tiny point, and he finally rises up, meets Danny’s gaze, catches his breath before falling on him to kiss the dazed, the loving expression off those lips and seal it into his soul. When he lines himself up and starts to slide so slowly inside Danny, he feels that cosmic and microcosmic melding of some eternal abstract notion of his being, subsumed within Danny as though he might actually be in danger of completely abandoning himself to this utterly un-experienced _whole._

It’s not till he’s fully within Danny that he realizes he’s stopped breathing. Danny’s holding him up, hands so firmly so strongly so powerfully propping Steve up by his chest. The strength that takes, Steve full knows, but Danny’s not straining in the least. He’s tapped into his own wellspring of inner reserve, cosmic fire, universal strength. They’re not themselves in this moment, yet they’re more fully, more purely _just them._ And it’s too overwhelming. He’s afraid to move.

But move he does, move he must. And each inch, each fraction of a movement is exquisite. Danny’s eyes flutter and close, but then open, imploring Steve to _move more._ Or maybe that’s with words, it’s impossible to know, it’s all indistinguishable to Steve at this point. Words, thoughts, feelings, sensations, everything is as one, as though he’s drunk, high, and completely sober all at once. He’s light as air, floating above his body, and heavy as lead, sinking beneath the surface to surely drown.

Danny holds himself still, then tilts, finds just that right angle, and Steve sees it on his face, he wants it to last, needs to keep going, like there’s some limit on how short a time they might last and if they surpass it, they’ve achieved something, proved something, made some kind of mark, some lasting something that means this is real. True. Forever.

That sense builds in Steve’s own body somehow, filling him, guiding him, pushing his senses to acute awareness of his own and Danny’s mounting pleasure, like there’s a pressure valve within him and he’s watching the red needle rise, flicker, hesitate, fall back, then surge forward, until it reaches that tipping point where it becomes just an inevitable slide into oblivion.

He comes to, being petted hypnotically by Danny. Hands on his head, down his arms, across his back, the most soothing, grounding, comforting—yet also arousing—thing. And he feels himself stir, still within Danny, and Danny chuckles, and pets him some more. Suddenly aware of his heaviness, crushing Danny beneath him, he starts to pull away, only to find he’s been bracketed by Danny’s surprising nimble legs.

“Don’t. Not yet. Please.”

It’s a tone he’s never heard before. And yet he knows it. Knows it as well as he knows his own inner longing, because it’s an echo of his own desire, need, want. The one he didn’t let himself take those five mornings. The _can’t this just last forever._ But now he knows, this spell won’t break. Still, he recognizes the need, and it’s not unlike his own, so he stays. Feels every brush of Danny’s touches. Feels them soothing him, calming him, but more than that, seeping deeply within his skin, seeking something at the center of his being, laying claim to it. Like Danny’s stroking his belonging deep within Steve’s very soul.

Sex as bonding. As promise. As marriage. He’s heard those who believe in that, never imagined it might be true, not for him. It’s always been pragmatic. Functional. Athletic, competitive even. Nothing like this. Nothing has ever been like this. But then, nothing has ever been like Danny.

Eventually he softens, slips out, eventually Danny squirms, heaves his chest to find his breathing. They fall to their sides, facing each other. Blissed out expressions become delighted grins, tentative, almost giddy touches spark joyful laughter. And they collapse, solidly, into each other’s arms, holding so tight. As though they’ve been long parted, as though they've come through some ordeal and are glad to be out the other side. Steve kicks the sheet from beneath them, wipes the worst of the mess from Danny, from himself, tosses it aside, then pulls Danny so close, so tight. Each point of their bodies in contact. Each plain of their physical form pressing together as though it might now be one. But even when they pull apart he feels it still. As though the external is now mirrored by an internal. Each point where their bodies might meet outside matching a place inside where they merge, collide, combine, form some new thing, some new connection, some new form of communication.

“Don’t go home,” Steve whispers into that new space. “Don’t leave. Stay. Just stay.”

Danny kisses him. Keeps a hand to his face. “This _is_ home. It always has been. That’s why I keep coming back.”

Steve feels the grin before he’s aware he’s made it. “So this time stay?”

Danny closes his eyes. Swallows. Then opens them to meet Steve’s with all the raw understanding of what it means. Of what he means. “Yeah,” he says. “This time I’ll stay. I’ll always stay.”


End file.
